Good Fun with a Handgun
by Klarinette-18
Summary: Murderface gets really bored and tries like hell to find something to do. Sort of attached to "Absolution," the finale to my last Skwisgaar/Toki fic, but only marginally.


**Title: **Good Fun with a Handgun  
**Author: **Klarinette-18  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **Murderface, Skwisgaar, Charles  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Word count: **982  
**Summary: **Murderface is in the living room and, despite claiming wanting to 'take it easy', he goes nuts with boredom and tries like hell to find something to do.  
**Warnings: **Swearing (I shouldn't have to warn you about that, though… it's Metalocalypse)  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything here, nor do I make any money from it.  
**Author's comments: **Apparently, I like adding to already finished fics. This one is Murderface's view of things in "Absolution," the finale for the Toki/Skwisgaar fic I did a couple months back. The title comes from what I was listening to at the time which, again, was Pink Floyd. Apparently, Pink Floyd makes me write Metalocalypse fanfics. Go figure…? Anyway, there are no guns in this fic; the title just reminded me of Murderface, who is the main feature here.

"Ja. You takes it easy, Moidaface… you… takes it easy…"  
Murderface watched Skwisgaar speak, the usually stern and broody expression on the Swede's face replaced by some sort of worry. Skwisgaar stood and left the room, probably going to see what was up Toki's ass this morning.

The war documentary had managed to become boring and monotonous; Murderface was pretty sure he'd already seen this one, possibly more than once. There was nothing else on, though, so he watched mindlessly with slight disinterest. After a while, it finally got to him; he turned off the television, stood up, and drop-kicked the remote control, sending it into the air and back down to the floor, breaking into several pieces upon impact. He had hoped that it would have amused him much more than it did, but now that it was over, he was bored again.  
"There'sch gotta be schomethin' to do around here," he said to himself. He didn't even care whether or not it was something easy at this point – he just wanted to do something. He wandered off down the hallway in the same direction that Skwisgaar had taken earlier. The Swede was nowhere to be found now, so Murderface went to Nathan's room instead.  
Unannounced, he walked into the room, "Hey, Nate!" he called out. Nathan was lying on his enormous bed, one large arm draped across his eyes. The singer grunted in acknowledgement of Murderface's presence.  
"What're ya doin' there?"  
"Sleeping."  
Murderface frowned and crossed his arms.  
Nathan lifted his arm and looked over at Murderface, "Uh… did you want something?"  
"You wanna go get a drink?"  
"No. I'm really fuckin' hung over. I sent that girl home. I just spent the morning puking. I don't wanna do anything. I just wanna lay here. Uh… get out… so I can sleep and stuff."  
There was no winning here. Murderface knew that, as long as Nathan was feeling as shitty as he was, he wouldn't be getting out of bed any time soon. Rather than argue or throw a fit, he simply left the room.

He thought Pickles might want to at least go for a drink or something, so he went to the drummer's room next. He knocked on the door this time, but didn't get a response. He opened it to find Pickles still asleep. It then occurred to him that it was still technically morning, and that Pickles was probably going to be hung over, if he managed to wake up at all today. _Everyone's fuckin' hung over, _he thought to himself.

Closing the door, a passing gear caught Murderface's eye.  
"Hey, you!"  
The Klokateer stopped, "Yes, my Lord? What do you require?"  
"I'm fuckin' bored. Dansche!"  
"As you wish," the hooded man said, and began to do something that resembled tap dancing. Murderface was amused, but could only chuckle a little. Soon, he was bored again.  
"Ah, ferget it. Get out of my schight."  
"Of course, my Lord."  
Murderface began to realize that he was doomed to be bored for the rest of the day. The situation was dire, and he only had one option left: the robot.

Charles worked quietly at his desk, and his fast-paced, linear thoughts were suddenly distorted by the urgent knocking on his office door.  
"Come in," he called.  
"Hey, Offdenschen!"  
"Yes, Murderface? Can I, uh, help you with something?"  
"I'm bored. And you know what? _You _look bored. Guessch thisch isch a lucky day for both of usch!"  
Charles removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, which were tired from having to read and write hundreds of emails already that morning.  
"Actually, Murderface, I've been working, and I still have a lot of work to—"  
"You are too tensche," Murderface interrupted, "You need to juscht take it easchy onsche in a while."  
"I do, uh, have a fair amount of work to do here—"  
"Hey! You can't juscht schnub me like that! I'm your bossch and you have to do what I schay!"  
There was no winning here.  
"What can I do for you, Murderface?"  
"I'm bored."  
"I gather that. What can _I _do?"  
Murderface looked around the room. He wandered around, trying to find something that he could maybe ask questions about… or something – anything! Charles went back to his emails while his bassist began moving things around on the shelves, flipping through books.

Charles looked up from his email when he heard scraping on the floor. He grew puzzled as he watched Murderface shuffle his way back over to the desk, dragging the coffee table and a chair with him. He then walked back to the shelf and picked up the glass chess set, setting it down on the coffee table in front of Charles.  
"Let'sch do thisch."  
"You know how to play chess?"  
"Of coursche I know how to play chessch! I'm not fuckin' schtupid."  
"I didn't say you were stupid, Murderface, I simply meant that chess doesn't seem like a game that you'd be interested in playing."  
Murderface chuckled to himself, "There'sch a lot you don't know about me." He cracked his knuckles and rolled a pawn around his hand, "Chessch isch the ultimate war schtrategy game. You've gotta get into your opponent'sch head and really fuck with 'em," he said, squinting his eyes and tapping a finger on his temple.  
"This is true. Clear or frosted?"  
"I'll let you make the firscht move, heh… you'll need all the help you can get," Murderface grinned smugly.  
"Very well, then." Charles moved one of his frosted pawns. Although he was happy to play a game of chess, and was pleasantly surprised that Murderface actually wanted to spend time with him, he was already mentally preparing for the inevitable hissy fit to be thrown when Murderface was defeated, and had his phone ready to call a gear to clean up the soon to be broken glass.


End file.
